First off, when I pipes the party in the pale green lid and the fuzzy English topcoat, I thought it was some stray from the House of Lords; but as it drifts nearer to the brass rail and I gets a glimpse of the mild blue eyes behind the thick, shell-rimmed glasses, I discovers that it's only Son-in-law Ferdy; you know, hubby to Marjorie Ellins that was.
"Wat ho!" says I. "Just in from Lunnon?"
"Why, no," says Ferdy, gawpin' foolish. "Whatever made you think that?"
"Then it's a disguise, is it?" says I, eyin' the costume critical.
"Oh, bother!" says Ferdy peevish. "I told Marjorie I should be stared at. And I just despise being conspicuous, you know! Where's Robert?"
"Mr. Robert ain't due back for an hour yet," says I. "You could catch him at the club, I expect."
"No, no," protests Ferdy hasty. "I—I wouldn't go to the club looking like this. I—I couldn't stand the chaff I'd get from the fellows. I'll wait."
"Suit yourself," says I, towin' him into Mr. Robert's private office. "You can shed the heather wrap in here, if you like."
"I—I wish I could," says he.
"Wha-a-at!" says I. "She ain't sewed you into it, has she? Anyhow, you don't have to keep it buttoned tight under your chin with all this steam heat on."
"I know," says Ferdy, sighin'. "I nearly roasted, coming down in the train. But, you see, it—it hides the tie."
"Eh?" says I. "Something else Marjorie picked out? Let's have a peek."
Ferdy blushes painful. "It's awful," he groans, "perfectly awful!"
"Not one of these nutty Futurist designs, like a scrambled rainbow shot full of pink polliwogs?" says I.
"Worse than that," says Ferdy, unbuttonin' the overcoat reluctant. "Look!"
"Zowie! A plush one!" says I.
Course, they ain't so new. I'd seen 'em in the zippy haberdashers' windows early in the fall; but I don't remember havin' met one out of captivity before. And this is about the plushiest affair you could imagine; bright orange and black, and half an inch thick.
"Whiffo!" says I. "That is something to have wished onto you! Looks like a caterpillar in a dream."
"That's right," says Ferdy. "It's been a perfect nightmare to me ever since Marjorie bought it. But I can't hurt her feelings by refusing to wear it. And this silly hat too—a scarf instead of a band!"
It's almost pathetic the way Ferdy holds the lid off at arm's length and gazes indignant at it.
"Draped real sweet, ain't it?" says I. "But most of the smart chappies are wearin' 'em that way, you know."
"Not this sickly green shade, though," says Ferdy plaintive. "I wish Marjorie wouldn't get such things for me. I—I've always been rather particular about my hats and ties. I like them quiet, you understand."
"You would get married, though," says I. "But, say, can't you do a duck by changing after you leave home?"
Seems the idea hadn't occurred to Ferdy. "But how? Where?" says he, brightenin' up.
"In the limousine as you're drivin' down to the station," says I. "You could keep an extra outfit in the car."
"By Jove!" says Ferdy. "Then I could change again on the way home, couldn't I? And if Marjorie didn't know, she wouldn't——"
"You've surrounded the plot of the piece," says I. "Now go to it. There's a gents' furnisher down in the arcade."
He's halfway out to the elevator before it occurs to him that he ain't responded with any grateful remarks; so back he comes to tell how much obliged he is.
"And, Torchy," he adds, "you know you haven't been out to see baby yet. Why, you must see little Ferdinand!"
"Ye-e-es, I been meanin' to," says I, maybe not wildly enthusiastic. "I expect he's quite a kid by this time."
"Eleven months lacking four days," says Ferdy, his face beamin'. "Wait! I want to show you his latest picture. Really wonderful youngster, I tell you."
So I has to inspect a snapshot that Ferdy produces from his pocketbook; and, while it looks about as insignificant as most of 'em, I pumps up some gushy remarks which seem to make a hit with Ferdy.
"Couldn't you come out Sunday?" says he.
"'Fraid not," says I. "In fact, I'm booked up for quite a spell."
"Too bad," says Ferdy, "for we're almost alone now,—only Peggy and Jane—my little nieces, you know—and Miss Hemmingway, who——"
"Vee?" says I, comin' straight up on my toes. "Say, Ferdy, I think I can break away Sunday, after all. Ought to see that youngster of yours, hadn't I? Must be mighty cute by now."
"Oh, he is," says Ferdy; "but if you can't come this week——"
"Got to," says I. "'Leven months, and me never so much as chucked him under the chin once! Gee! how careless of me!"
"All right, Sunday next," says Ferdy. "We shall look for you."
That was throwin' in reverse a little sudden, I admit; but my chances of gettin' within hailin' distance of Vee ain't so many that I can afford to overlook any bets. Besides, up at Marjorie's is about the only place where I don't have to run the gauntlet goin' in, or do a slide for life comin' out. She'll shinny on my side every trip, Marjorie will—and believe me I need it all!
Looked like a special dispensation too, this bid of Ferdy's; for I wanted half an hour's private chat with Vee the worst way just then, to clear up a few things. For instance, my last two letters had come back with "Refused" scratched across the face, and I didn't know whether it was some of Aunty's fine work, or what. Anyway, it's been a couple of months now that the wires have been down between us, and I was more or less anxious to trace the break.
So Sunday afternoon don't find me missin' any suburban local. Course, Ferdy's mighty intellect ain't suggested to him anything about askin' me out for a meal; so I has to take a chance on what time to land there. But I strikes the mat about two-thirty P. M., and the first one to show up is Marjorie, lookin' as plump and bloomin' a corn-fed Venus as ever.
"Why, Torchy!" says she, with business of surprise.
"Uh-huh," says I. "Special invite of Ferdy's to come see the heir apparent. Didn't he mention it?"
"Humph! Ferdy!" says Marjorie. "Did you ever know of him remembering anything worth while?"
"Oh, ho!" says I. "In disgrace, is he?"
"He is," says Marjorie, sniffin' scornful. "But it's nice of you to want to see baby. The dear little fellow is just taking his afternoon nap. He wakes up about four, though."
"Oh, I don't mind waitin' a bit," says I. "You know, I'm crazy to see that kid."
"Really!" says Marjorie, beamin' delighted. "Then you shall go right up now, while he is——"
"No," says I, holdin' up one hand. "I might sneeze, or something. I'll just stick around until he wakes up."
"It's too bad," says Marjorie; "but Verona is dressing and——"
"What!" says I. "Vee here?"
"Just going," says Marjorie. "Her aunty is to call for her in about an hour."
Say, then was no time for wastin' fleetin' moments on any bluff. "Say, Marjorie," says I, "couldn't you get her to speed up the toilet motions a bit and shoo her downstairs? Don't say who; but just hint that someone wants to see her mighty special for a few moments. There's a good girl!"
Marjorie giggles and shows her dimples. "I might try," says she. "Suppose you wait in the library, where there's a nice log fire."
So it's me for an easy chair in the corner, where I can watch for the entrance. Five minutes by the clock on the mantel, and nothing happens. Ten minutes, and no Vee. Then I hears a smothered snicker off to the left. I'd got my face all set for the cheerful greetin' too, when I discovers two pairs of brown eyes inspectin' me roguish, through the parted portières. And neither pair was any I'd ever seen before.
"Huh!" thinks I. "Nice way to treat guests!" and I pretends not to notice. I've picked up a magazine and am readin' the pictures industrious, when there's more snickers. I scowls, fidgets around some, and fin'lly takes another glance. The brown eyes are twinklin' mischievous, all four of 'em.
"Well," says I, "what's the joke? Shoot it!"
At that into the room bounces a couple of girls, somewhere around ten and twelve, I should judge; tall, long-legged kids, but cute lookin', and genuine live wires, from their toes up. They're fairly wigglin' with some kind of excitement.
"We know who you are!" singsongs one, pointin' the accusin' finger.
"You're Torchy!" says the other.
"Then I'm discovered," says I. "How'd you dope it out?"
"By your hair!" comes in chorus, and then they goes to a panicky clinch and giggles down each other's necks.
"Hey, cut out the comic relief," says I, "and give me a turn. Which one of you is Peggy?"
"Why, who told you that?" demands the one with the red ribbon.
"Oh, I'm some guesser myself," says I. "It's you."
"Pooh! I bet it was Uncle Ferdinand," says she.
"Good sleuth work!" says I. "He's the guy. But I didn't know he had such a cunnin' set of nieces. Most as tall as he is, ain't you, Peggy?"
But that don't happen to be the line of dialogue they're burnin' to follow out. Exchangin' a look, they advance mysterious until there's one on each side of me, and then Peggy whispers dramatic:
"You came to see Miss Vee, didn't you?"
"Vee?" says I, lookin' puzzled. "Vee which?"
"Oh, you know, now!" protests Jane, tappin' me playful.
"Sorry," says I, "but this is a baby visit I'm payin'. Ask Uncle Ferdinand if it ain't."
"Humph!" says Peggy. "Anyone can fool Uncle Ferdy."
"Besides," says Jane, "we saw a picture on Vee's dressing table, and when we asked who it was she hid it. So there!"
"Not a picture of me, though," says I. "Couldn't be."
"Yes, it was," insists Jane.
"A snapshot of you," says Peggy, "taken in a boat."
I won't deny that was some cheerful bulletin; but somehow I had a hunch it might be best not to let on too much. Course, I could locate the time and place. I must have got on the film durin' my stay up at Roarin' Rocks last summer.
"In a boat!" says I. "Of all things!"
"And Vee doesn't want anyone to know about it," adds Jane, "specially her aunty."
"Why not?" comes in Peggy, lookin' me straight in the eye.
"Very curious!" says I, shakin' my head. "What else did Vee have to say about me?"
"M-m-m-m!" says Peggy. "We can't tell."
"We promised not to," says Jane.
"You're a fine pair of promisers!" says I. "I expect you hold secrets like a wire basket holds water."
"We never said a word, did we, Peggy?" demands Jane.
"Nope!" says Peggy. "Maybe he's the one Vee's aunty doesn't like."
"Are you?" says Jane, clawin' my shoulder excited.
"How utterly thrillin'!" says I. "Say, you're gettin' me all tittered up. Think it's me Aunty has the war club out for, do you?"
"It's someone with hair just like yours, anyway," says Peggy.
"Think of that!" says I. "Does red hair throw Aunty into convulsions, or what?"
"Aunt Marjorie says it's because you—that is, because the one she meant isn't anybody," says Jane. "He's poor, and all that. Are you poor?"
"Me?" says I. "Why—say, what is this you're tryin' to pull off on me, impeachment proceedings? Come now, don't you guess your Aunt Marjorie'll be wantin' you?"
"No," says Peggy. "She told us for goodness sake to run off and be quiet."
"What about this Miss Vee party, then?" says I. "Don't she need you to help her hook up?"
"We just came from her room," says Peggy.
"She pushed us out and locked the door," adds Jane.
"Great strategy!" says I. "Show me a door with a key in it."
"Pooh!" says Peggy. "You couldn't put us both out at once."
"Couldn't I?" says I. "Let's see."
With that I grabs one under each arm, and with the pair of 'em strugglin' and squealin' and rough housin' me for all they was worth, I starts towards the livin' room. We was right in the midst of the scrimmage when in walks Vee, with her hat and furs all on, lookin' some classy, take it from me. But the encouragin' part of it is that she smiles friendly, and I smiles back.
We was right in the midst of the scrimmage when in walks Vee.[Illustration: We was right in the midst of the scrimmage when in walks Vee.]
We was right in the midst of the scrimmage when in walks Vee.[Illustration: We was right in the midst of the scrimmage when in walks Vee.]
"Well, you found someone, didn't you, girls?" says she.
"Oh, Vee, Vee!" sings out Peggy gleeful. "Isn't this Torchy?"
"Your Torchy?" demands Jane.
I tips Vee the signal for general denial and winks knowin'. But, say, you can't get by with anything crude on a pair of open-eyed kids like that.
"Oh, I saw!" announces Jane. "And you do know him, don't you, Vee?"
"Why, I suppose we have met before?" says she, laughin' ripply. "Haven't we, Torchy?"
"Now that you mention it," says I, "I remember." And we shakes hands formal.
"Came to see the baby, I hear," says Vee.
"Oh, sure!" says I. "Maybe you could tell me about him first, though, if we could find a quiet corner."
"Oh, we'll tell you," chimes in Peggy. "We know all about Baby. He has a tooth!"
"Say," says I, wigglin' away from the pair, "couldn't you go load up someone else with information, just for ten minutes or so?"
"What for?" says Jane, eyin' me suspicious.
"We'd rather stay here," says Peggy decided.
I catches a humorous twinkle in Vee's gray eyes as she holds out her hands to the girls. "Listen," says she confidential. "You know those hermit cookies you're so fond of? Well, Cook made a whole jarful yesterday. They're in the pantry."
"I know," says Jane. "We found 'em last night."
"The Glue Sisters!" says I. "Now see here, Kids, I've just thought of a message I ought to give to Miss Vee."
"Who from?" demands Peggy.
"From a young chap I know who thinks a lot of her," says I. "It's strictly private too."
"What's it about?" says Jane.
Which was when my tactics gave out. "Say, you two human question marks," says I, "beat it, won't you?"
No, they just wouldn't. The best they would do for me was to back off to the other side of the room, eyes and ears wide open, and there they stood.
"Go on!" whispers Vee. "What was it he wanted to say?"
"It was about a couple of notes he wrote," says I.
"Yes?" says Vee. "What happened?"
"They came back," says I, "without being opened."
"Oh," says Vee, "those must have been the ones that——"
"Vee, Vee!" breaks in Peggy from over near the window. "Here comes your aunty."
"Good night, nurse!" says I.
"Tell him it's all right," says Vee hasty. "He might send the next ones in care of Marjorie; then I'll be sure of getting them. By-by, Peggy. Don't squeeze so hard, Jane. No, please don't come out, Torchy. Goodby."
And in another minute I'm left to the mercy of the near-twins once more. I camps down in the easy chair again, with one on each side, and the cross examination proceeds. Say, they're a great pair too.
"Didn't Vee want you to go out 'cause her aunty would see you?" asks Peggy.
"There!" says I. "I wonder?"
"I'm glad she isn't my aunty," says Jane. "She looks too cross."
"If I was Vee's aunty," puts in Peggy, "I wouldn't be mad if she did have your picture in a silver frame."
"Honest?" says I. "How's that?"
"'Cause I don't think you're so awful horrid, even if you aren't anybody," says Peggy. "Do you, Jane?"
"I like him," says Jane. "I think his hair's nice too."
"Well, well!" says I. "Guess I got some gallery with me, anyway. And how does Vee stand with you?"
"Oh, she's just a dear!" says Peggy, clappin' her hands.
"M-m-m-m!" echoes Jane. "She's going to take us to see Maude Adams next Wednesday too."
"Huh!" says I, indicatin' deep thought. "So you'll see her again soon?"
"I wish it was tomorrow," says Jane.
"Mr. Torchy," says Peggy, grabbin' me impulsive by one ear and swingin' my face around, "truly now, aren't you awfully in love with Vee?"
Say, where do they pick it up, youngsters of that age? Her big brown eyes are as round and serious as if she knew all about it; and on the other side is Jane, fairly holdin' her breath.
"Whisper!" says I. "Could you two keep a secret?"
"Oh, yes!" comes in chorus.
"Well, then," says I, "I'm going to hand you one. I think Vee is the best that ever happened."
"Oh, goody!" exclaims Peggy. "Then you do love her awfully! But why don't you——"
"Wait!" says I. "When I get to be a little older, and some bigger, and after I've made heaps and heaps of money, and have a big, black automobile——"
"And a big, black mustache," adds Peggy.
"No," says I. "Cut out the miracles. Call it when I'm in business for myself. Then, if somebody'll only choke off Aunty long enough, I may—well, some fine moonlight night I may tell her all about it."
"Oh!" gasps Jane. "Mayn't we be there to hear you do it?"
"Not if I can bar you out," says I.
"Please!" says Peggy. "We would sit just as still and not—— Oh, here's Aunt Marjorie. Aunty, what do you think? Mr. Torchy's been telling us a secret."
"There, there, Peggy," says Marjorie, "don't be silly. Torchy is waiting to see Baby. Come! He's awake now."
Yep, I had to do the inspection act, after all. And I must say that most of these infant wonders look a good deal alike; only Ferdinand, Jr., has a cute way of tryin' out his new tooth on your thumb.
Goin' back towards the station I meets Ferdy, himself, trampin' in lonesome from a long walk, and lookin' mighty glum.
"Of all the gloom carriers!" says I. "What was it let you in bad this time?"
"You ought to know," says he.
"For why?" says I.
"Oh, fudge!" says he. "I suppose you didn't put me up to that silly business of changing neckties!"
"Chinked it, did you?" says I. "But how?"
"If you must know," says he, "I forgot to change back on my way home, and Marjorie's still furious. She simply won't let me explain, refuses to listen to a word. So what can I do?"
"A cinch!" says I. "You got a pair of livin' dictaphones in the house, ain't you? Work it off on Peggy and Jane as a secret, and you'll have your defense on record inside of half an hour. Cheer up, Ferdy. Ishkabibble!"